Ford Pines/Stan Pines | 1,130 Word Count
Ahh I'm late! But here's my entry for the second prompt of @5summersofstancest : Forever.
No warnings! Just a bit of angst. Enjoy♡
When Stan thought of the word forever, he’d always thought of Ford. Of the Stan-o-War.
A silly fucking word—already past the age of believing anything could be forever. It was the kind of shit he'd scoffed at when he'd had a few drinks too many and remembered Ford.
The word had popped into his head when he looked at Ford, at twelve years old, and hadn't left him since then. He remembered looking at Ford's smile, seeing the way their hands fit together so right, and thought that yeah, he wanted Ford to be his forever.
He was twelve and then he was eighteen, and there was a growing feeling he'd been having for Ford, and intensified when one night, sitting beside each other on his bunk, Stan had felt Ford's lips pressed against his.
Thinking about the word forever made him feel funny. Like something had wriggled around in his chest and taken root in the center, making him restless with hope, his skin feeling tingly and warm.
But shit happened. Stan was kicked out of his home, had been to prison more times than he'd called Caryn throughout the years, and regretted every life decision he'd made. Always running away from everything. From the cops and Rico's goons, or running away from himself. Moving from place to place and living in his car. He would look at a childhood photo of Ford and him, and was reminded of how much he'd lost everything, how much he'd fucked up.
Stan hadn't heard from him in years and didn't have the guts to call him. Even when Stan did, he quickly hung up. Just hearing Ford's voice made his chest tighten. Would rather leave everything unsaid.
When he received Ford's letter, Stan couldn't believe it at first, thinking that maybe he was dreaming.
It came all the way from Oregon—some bumfuck nowhere called Gravity Falls. Ford needed him.
Then he'd met Ford and lost him again. His brother had been sucked into the portal. Gone. Stan cried himself to sleep throughout the week.
The years passed, endless sleepless nights of working on the portal until his hair turned gray and his tears all dried up, until his hands bled, to bring back the one and only family he cared about.
His brother was alive, older, and angry.
As Ford trudged out from the portal, Stan was struck by how much he still wanted Ford to be his forever. He was his family, his everything.
Even if Ford punched him so hard Stan could see stars.
He packed a mean punch; his cheek hurt like a bitch, and Stan realized how much Ford had changed. How much stronger he'd become, no longer the scrawny kid he used to be. He'd changed, but was still familiar and yet so different. Stan would recognize those same eyes, those six-fingered hands anywhere.
Living together with Ford, after all these years, felt surreal. And Ford didn't make it easy.
Stan expected gratitude, something—but they couldn't sit in the same room together for long, would argue often and make it hurt, screaming nonsense and bringing up the past, or avoid each other. He thought of saying sorry and didn't—still hoping for a thank you from Ford.
Then Weirdmageddon happened, and Stan couldn't remember who he associated the word forever with.
He's hot, Stan thought, not for the first time. He didn't think someone could age this good.
Shouldn't be thinking that way.
Ford—his brother, he remembered—sat opposite him at the dining table, a coffee with too much sugar in his hand, staring at Stan as he drank from his mug. The morning sunlight caught on the strands of his gray hair and highlighted the bridge of his nose, the fabric on the curves of his biceps.
Ford's turtleneck was different today. Darker in color, hugging him in all the right places. Stan wanted him to take off his coat.
He chewed his pancake, trying not to squirm.
Ford was still staring at him. His mug was set down, a finger tapping the side of it. Always staring, he thought, and always had that longing in his eye, that little crease between his eyebrows. Stan wondered what he was thinking about.
“Stanley,” Ford said eventually. “Do you remember our dream to sail away together?” he asked, smiling. A tiny thing.
Ford's eyes flicked down to his lips. Stan wiped off the syrup from them with his hand, suddenly stopping mid-chew when he was flashed by an image of a younger Ford kissing him, before Stan blinked away the image.
“Yeah, ‘course,” he said, and something inside of him softened, warmth spreading in his chest. He'd been getting flashes of old memories lately. He remembered the Stan-o-War, the many years it took to improve the boat, how they promised to sail away together.
He smiled at Ford. “‘S hard to forget it.”
Outside, the birds were chirping and flying, their shadows passing on the table.
There was a lot of Ford in his regained memories: holding hands with Ford, pranking Ford, laughing with Ford. Ford, Ford, Ford.
Ford nodded, took a final sip of his coffee then stood, walking toward his side. Stan looked up at him and watched as Ford's hand slipped inside his coat.
His brother handed him a photo. Stan's heart did a small flip. It was a childhood photo of them, posing in the Stan-o-War. Stan looked at its dog-eared and ripped corners, the brown stains, and wondered if Ford brought it with him everywhere, if he looked at it at night and thought about him throughout the years.
Ford was telling him about how Weirdmageddon had been contained, that he'd been detecting strange new anomalies near the Arctic Ocean, and wanted to go investigate them, needing someone to come with him.
Stan's eyes widened, hope swirling in his chest. “Are you sayin’ you need someone to help you sail around the world,” he said, his heart racing, “on the adventure of a lifetime?”
Ford took one of Stan's hands, grasping it.
“I don't just want someone to come with me, Stanley. I want it to be you.”
Stan wanted Ford to always look at him like this—his eyes shining with tenderness for him.
“Will you give me a second chance, and sail with me forever?”
The softness in Ford's voice made his insides all liquid and warm.
It's a nice thought, ya know? Sailing with you forever. Stan had said to Ford when they were younger, and felt Ford taking his pinky in his own and curling them together.
Stan threw himself into Ford's arms, and kissed him as his answer.
